Kestrel

by Michelle Reale

They are kestrels, though I know them by other names.   Honey buzzard has a nice sound to it, but I would never say it out loud.  A raptor has a wingspan that frightens me, but only in my dreams, during a full moon.  I once met a woman who made a strong impression on me for all that she lacked.  I invented interesting details about her to entertain myself, but nothing too extravagant that even I wouldn’t believe them.   Here was a woman who would not dream of buying herself something special.  There is a man, somewhere, in a country whose name we cannot pronounce that might do it for her, though.  As for me, I had so many illusions, but that was  long ago and they  have gone through the progression from  hope to hysteria.  Occasionally, I nurture them; encourage their growth.   A woman might decorate herself with the feathers of a bird of prey, but she will still be a woman:  all angry teeth, majestic, with  multiple layers of mystery.   There are complexities to forgiveness, but we seek it anyway.  These are rules that most of us will never master, but not for lack of trying.   Still, we look to migration.  We test air currents.   We lean into the wind with more than just our bodies.